


when you land

by LovelyLessie



Series: Steeply, Swiftly [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, X-Factor (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing his wings, Warren starts to fall apart. Scott and the rest of the X-Factor team do their best to keep him together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "The fall from grace is steep and swift, and when you land, it does not make a sound, because you are alone." Cari Williams, 1995.
> 
> Chapter warnings: (attempted) suicide, medication overdose, hospitalization.

The phone rings at a little past two in the morning.

Scott isn’t awake enough to think until it rings a second time, at which point he pushes himself up and fumbles for his glasses with one hand. Who the  _hell,_  he thinks irritably as the phone rings again, and stumbles to his feet to get it.

If he hadn’t been woken up by it, he would probably start with  _hello._  Instead he asks, “What fucking  _time_  is it?”

"Uhhhhm," says the voice on the other end, very slowly.

He sighs. “Warren?” he asks. It sounds like him, but something’s off.

"Hi," Warren says. "It’s, yeah, it’s me. Sorry for, uh." His voice is thick and heavy and sluggish. "I…did I…wake you up?"

"Uh, yeah," Scott says, but he’s not annoyed anymore. "What’s going on?"

"Sorry," Warren mumbles again. "Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean…I just…"

 _Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong_  says a voice in his head and he swallows. ”It’s fine,” he says. “Seriously, what do you need?”

"Jus’ wanted t’talk," Warren says, his words all slurring together.

Scott frowns. “Are you  _drunk?”_

"What?" Warren asks, slowly. "Oh, no."

"Warren…"

A weak laugh, not much more than a forceful breath. “I’m just tired,” he says. “I, um, I think I’ll go to sleep soon, but I. Wanted to talk to you first.”

"What’s going on?" Scott asks, his breath catching in his throat.

"I’m sorry for, uh," Warren mumbles, but he doesn’t clarify. Instead he clears his throat and says, "Hey, I love you."

"You’re freaking me out," Scott replies. He’s almost shouting. "Warren,  _tell me what’s wrong!”_

Warren goes very quiet for a minute. “I just,” he says. “Wanted to talk to you.”

He tries to demand an answer again but his voice breaks over Warren’s name and it turns into a sob. “You’re scaring me,” he chokes. “ _Talk_ to me, please,  _please_  - “

"I’m sorry," Warren says. "I’m sorry, Scott, fuck, I’m sorry - "

“ _What’s going on?”_   This time he manages to yell.

"I just, wanted to hear," Warren mumbles, and trails off.

Scott feels cold. “Warren?” he asks. “Hey, wait, stay with me. Warren?”

"I’m here." He’s quiet again after that, too quiet - and then much too late he draws a shaky breath. 

Oh, God.

“‘M so tired,” he mumbles, barely audible.

"Stay on the phone," Scott says, "keep talking to me, okay, I’m sorry for yelling. Tell me what’s going on, Warren, please…"

No answer.

"Warren?"

The door flies open. “Scott?” Jean calls. “Why are you yelling? What’s happening?”

"Shut up!" he snaps at her, trying to listen for a reply. " _Warren!”_

Silence - silence - a breath. No answer.

_Thunk._

"We have to go," he says, and drops the receiver. 

"Scott,  _what,”_  Jean asks, sounding shaken. 

"Now!" he shouts back, stumbling towards the door. "Something’s wrong, something’s really - we have to get to the lodge where Warren’s staying,  _now,_  Jean - “

"Okay!" she says. "We’ll go."

A breath hisses through his teeth. “Let’s go get ready,” he says. “Wake Hank up, okay, I’ll meet you in the hangar.”

 

* * *

 

During the flight no one talks much.

Scott sits with his head in his hands feeling sick and shaken. He brushes Jean off when she lays a hand on his shoulder and turns away her offer to help ease his nerves. 

They’re all there - Hank in the open cockpit of the plane, Bobby uncharacteristically still and quiet in the row of seats ahead, Jean beside Scott close enough that if he wanted to he could take her hand. He doesn’t.

He knows he should tell them what’s happening but he can’t bring himself to speak. No one presses him. Enough to know that Warren is in danger - enough for them to guess.

He’s too afraid already to be any more nervous from the flight. It seems like a stupid thing to even think about, when -

When -

Jean reaches over to take his hand. He doesn’t respond in kind, but he doesn’t pull away.

 

* * *

 

 

Twelve minutes after takeoff the jet lands outside the lodge and they climb out. In the dark there’s no hope of Scott finding his way; he holds onto Jean’s arm as she hurries towards the house, following her footsteps.

Once they’re in the lodge, he doesn’t need light anymore. He knows the layout of the building already, and he knows where he’s going. One hand on the wall and the other in front of him, he practically runs through the silent rooms to the master bedroom.

"Warren," he calls, and hears no answer, and thinks,  _oh, God, what if I’m too late._

"Scott?" Jean shouts from down the hall.

He ignores her, feels in the dark for the phone, traces the cord to find the receiver on the floor at the edge of the bed.

Above it Warren’s hand, hanging off the mattress. Scott grabs it, feels cold fingers, almost panics before he finds the slow pulse in his wrist. He sighs and falls to his knees, resting against the bed.

"Warren," he says, and reaches up to shake his shoulder. "Hey, wake up, come on, I need you to wake up for me."

"Scott!" Jean calls from the hallway, and then, "Oh, my God."

He jostles Warren’s shoulder again and gets a faint murmur in response, but nothing more. “Hank,” he says. “We need - “

"Hank!" she shouts at the top of her lungs, and out in the hall he can hear the others running. With one hand he finds Warren’s face, checks for breath against his skin. It’s there, but it’s so slow and so faint that at first he isn’t sure. Oh, God, what if they’re too late, what if -

"Let me take him," Hank says, and gently nudges Scott to the side. In the total darkness of the room Scott has no perception of what’s happening beyond what he can hear - Hank’s grunt, Jean’s shaky breath.

"Shit," Bobby says from the doorway as he stumbles in. "Shit - is he - ?"

"He’s going to be alright," Hank says. "We’d better move quickly though - he needs attention, now."

"What  _happened?”_  Bobby asks.

Footsteps. Something rattles. “Dammit,” Jean says in a quavering voice. There’s another rattle, and Scott can put together the scene: a bottle of pills, probably painkillers, and Jean holding them up for the room to see. He lets out a shaky breath and tips his head back, eyes burning.

"Come on," Bobby says after a few tense seconds, and his cold fingers find Scott’s arm. "Come on, man, let’s go, we gotta get to the hospital."

Scott swallows hard, and nods, and lets Bobby help him to his feet.

 

* * *

 

In any other circumstance Scott wouldn’t dream of sitting unsecured on the floor of an aircraft mid-flight.

But he is now, his shoulders pressed against the edge of the seat behind him and his feet braced against the fastenings of the one in front. Warren is sprawled on his back across the aisle with his head in Scott’s lap, and Scott rests his hand on Warren’s chest, so light it barely even counts, just close enough to make sure he doesn’t stop breathing.

He doesn’t, but he doesn’t wake up, either, except for briefly stirring once, halfway through the flight, to lift his head and mumble something incomprehensible. He’s asleep again before Scott can ask him to repeat it.

The only sound is the hum of the engine and Warren’s shallow breaths and a pen - Jean’s? - scratching on paper. She’s got the bottle of pills in her hand and when the floor jostles they clatter against the sides. Scott twitches at the sound every time.

"You going to be okay?" she asks him very quietly.

"As soon as Warren’s alright," he says, his voice catching in his throat.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes just under eleven minutes to reach the hospital, pushing the speed as far as they can, and to land safely at the edge of the parking lot.

"I don’t think I ought to come in with you," Hank says. "What with your identities remaining secret…"

"It’s fine," Jean says quickly. "Scott, can you manage?"

"Yeah," he says, already shifting so he can carry Warren himself. It isn’t so bad, anyways -  _awkward,_  because Warren is tall and long-limbed, but he doesn’t weight much for a guy his size.

Jean puts her hand on his shoulder to guide him, down from the plane and across the lot to the glare of the fully-lit emergency room. He could make it on his own here, probably, but it’s faster with her help. Bobby runs ahead to push open the doors for them, uncharacteristically quiet the whole time.

After the dark and the dead silence of the flight, the ER is a little dizzying - all bright space and dark silhouettes moving around, all shouting and chaos.

Scott stands frozen in place while Jean runs for the nurse, and suddenly he’s surrounded and other arms are taking Warren, still asleep, out of his. He lets them.

"Come on," Jean says, her voice hushed. "Scott, come on."

"Coming," he says hollowly, and shuts his eyes against the lights, finding he prefers the relief of total darkness. She takes his arm and pulls him away. He follows.

 

* * *

 

Jean is the one who talks to the triage nurse; she did all the math on the plane to work out how many pills Warren took, counting from the number left and the days since the operation. 

Scott can’t make out much of what they’re saying, but he can hear the rise in Jean’s tone, the tremor in her voice. He feels sick.

She comes back when she’s finished and takes him by the arm again. “We’ve got to stay in the waiting room,” she says, sounding tired. “Bobby? Are you coming?”

"I’m gonna go keep Hank company," Bobby says. "Come get us if anything happens, okay?"

"Yeah," Jean agrees. "I’ll let you know, don’t worry."

Bobby catches Scott’s shoulder with one hand before he leaves. “Hey,” he says, “hang in there, okay?”

"Sure," he says. "Thanks."

 

* * *

 

 

The visitor waiting room is heavy with the kind of hush that comes from thick evening fog, a tangible silence weighing down on the room and muffling all sound. 

Jean helps Scott find a seat and takes the one beside him, her fingers trailing down to rest over the back of his hand. For a long few minutes neither of them speaks. What the hell is there to say, anyways? 

"What time is it?" he asks eventually.

Beside him she shifts, stirs - she must have been falling asleep. “Um - just after three, now.”

He pushes up his glasses to rub at his eyes. “Did the nurse, uh - did she say anything about how long?”

The room seems to swallow his voice up. Jean’s fingers curl around his. “No,” she says. “They’ll let us know when he’s in recovery.”

"Right." He nods and slumps back in his chair, leaning over to rest his head on her shoulder. "Any idea about the prognosis?"

Her silence is answer enough.

 

* * *

 

It’s another half an hour before a nurse comes to bring them to the recovery room.

There’s machinery humming quietly inside, and from the door Scott can hear Warren breathing, a hollow, echoing sound. He frowns, angling his head and trying to make sense of the noise.

_It’s oxygen,_  Jean tells him, catching his thoughts before he figures out how to voice them.  _In case he goes into respiratory depression again._

He cracks a smile for her, the best he can manage, and shakes her off so he can cross the room and kneel at the side of Warren’s bed. 

"Don’t wake him up," she says softly. "Let him rest. He’ll be okay."

"I know," he replies, and finds Warren’s hand, lying open and upwards on the sheets. Briefly he laces their fingers together, runs his thumb over Warren’s. He wonders if he’s imagining that Warren’s fingers curl around his slightly.  _He always moves in his sleep,_  he thinks, and tries to forget how still Warren was on the plane.

He pulls his hand away and rests it briefly on Warren’s chest. He can  _hear_  him breathing, of course, but it helps, to feel it as well.

"Scott?" Jean asks quietly. "I’m going to go talk with Bobby and Hank, okay?"

"Yeah," he agrees.

She crosses the room to crouch beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. “Be back soon,” she says, and leans in to press a quick kiss against his cheek before leaving the room.

Scott turns and settles with his shoulders up against the frame of the hospital bed, stretching out his legs in front of him and listening to the steady sound of Warren’s breath.

He’s asleep before Jean gets back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: explicit discussion of suicide and drug overdose; hospitalization; abuse.
> 
> As promised this chapter features significantly more Warren.

It takes a few minutes, when he wakes up, for Warren to figure out where he is.

It’s a hospital room, with cream-colored walls and dimmed lights, and he’s lying on the hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. Beside him, Scott is sitting on the floor, asleep, slumped against the bed with his head hanging and his glasses crooked on his face.

Warren takes a deep breath and lets it out.

When he sits up Scott stirs and lifts his head. “Watch your glasses,” Warren says immediately.

"Got them," Scott says, and pushes them back into place. "You’re up."

"Yeah." He rubs the sleep from his eyes with the back of one hand. For a few seconds it could be any other morning.

"How are you feeling?" Scott asks.

The illusion breaks. “Um,” he replies, and swallows. “Okay, I guess.” It’s not  _really_  a lie. There’s pain flaring up in his shoulder-blades and back, and he feels like everything inside him has been scraped raw, but  _okay_  is a vaguely-defined marker.

The look on Scott’s face says he’s not inclined to agree with this assessment, but he doesn’t argue.

"Sorry to wake you up," Warren mutters.

Scott turns so Warren can see his face, a scowl etched across his features. “Warren Kenneth Worthington,” he says, dead serious, “don’t you  _ever_  apologize for waking me up again.”

Warren stares at him for a moment, processing that. “Okay,” he agrees in a small voice.

A beat, and Scott’s face softens. “I’m sorry,” he says, and there’s a rasp in his throat. 

"No," Warren says quickly. "No, you’re right." He stretches, sucks in a breath as the pain in his back spikes up. "Ack - "

"Don’t hurt yourself," Scott says. It’s something he might say as a joke, but it isn’t now; he says it so carefully and tenderly that Warren feels his throat get tight. 

"Thanks," he says. "For - "

 _For worrying,_  he thinks.  _For coming. For staying with me. For not leaving._

"For being here," he finishes, a little flatly.

Scott tries to smile. “Yeah, of course,” he says, and reaches up to catch Warren’s hand. “The others wanted to stick around, but Hank - uh, he couldn’t come in. You know.” 

"Right," Warren agrees. He knows better than Scott does, anyways. 

"I think Jean came back - she went to talk to them, after your - procedure - let them know you’re doing better." Scott frowns, turns his head to search the room and confirm that she’s not there. "I don’t know where she is now, though."

"Guess that means you’re stuck with me," Warren says, and squeezes Scott’s hand.

His smile at that is genuine, if a little weary. “Well, I’m  _that_ no matter what,” he replies. The smile slips away as quickly as it came, and he adds, “You should call them. When you’re feeling up to it, I mean.”

Warren nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe after I eat something.” He pauses to rub at the bridge of his nose above the mask. “Can I take this thing off?”

"Dunno," Scott says. "Call your nurse and ask."

He shakes his hand free and examines the side-table to find the call button so he can do so. Scott settles back, sitting on his feet; Warren moves around to lean up against the wall, already worn out by sitting up alone. For a long moment everything is quiet.

Scott coughs and says, softly, “Jean guessed six.”

"That, um," he says, and swallows hard. "That sounds about right."

Scott’s mouth tightens and he nods stiffly. Warren looks away, his nails digging crescents into his palms.

"I mean," Scott says after a very tense pause. "I didn’t really believe it, but I sort of hoped you took it twice by mistake."

There’s a hard edge to his voice and Warren wishes desperately that he could pretend that’s what happened, because he knows Scott’s heart has to be breaking and he  _hates_  that it’s his fault. Hates knowing how it would have happened anyways and when he’s here to  _see_  it he feels guilty.

"Your head’s always all over the place," Scott says. "If she’d come up with four, I would probably have believed you just  _forgot.”_

"I know," he replies, and he can’t bring himself to lift his head.

He shuts his eyes and prays the nurse will arrive and cut the conversation short, because he doesn’t want to  _do_  this, he doesn’t want to have this talk, not now. Ideally not ever. 

No such mercy.

"Jesus  _fucking_  Christ, Warren,” Scott says, and the edge of his voice turns to glass and splinters. 

He tips his head back, his eyes burning, his throat tight, trying his hardest to keep himself from crying. “‘M sorry,” he manages, very quietly. 

"Why didn’t - " Scott chokes on his voice. "Why didn’t you tell anyone?"

 _Fuck,_  he thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut. What kind of answer is he supposed to give to that? What’s he supposed to say, except  _because I didn’t care, because you weren’t supposed to come rescue me, because I don’t want to do this -_

"Didn’t want anyone to know," he says. "Didn’t want to - worry you."

Scott makes a strangled sound. “Didn’t want to  _worry_  us,” he echoes. “So what the fuck do you call this?”

"Cut it out," Warren says, more sharply than he means to. 

"Cut it out?" Scott demands, his voice rising to a ragged shout. "Cut it  _out?_  And what - pretend this didn’t happen? Forget about all of this? Christ, Warren! I thought - I thought - “

He gasps and sobs and Warren can’t look at him. He can’t look.

"I thought you were going to die," he chokes out.

Warren doesn’t have time to answer before there’s a knock on the door. Scott goes very quiet.

"Hey," Warren says, turning to see the nurse in the door.

"Hi," she says, with a reassuring smile. "How are you feeling, Mr. Worthington?"

"Um," he says, blinking. "Okay. Hungry."

"Of course," she agrees. "Excuse me, Mr - ?"

"Oh," Scott says in a small voice. "Uh, Summers. Hi. Sorry." 

The nurse frowns at him. “Are you checked in as a visitor?” she asks. “I don’t think we have anyone listed - “

"We’ll make sure he gets checked in when we go get food," Warren says quickly. "Which I’d like to do now, if that’s okay, and if I can take this thing off." He gestures at the mask.

"I think that should be fine," she says. "I’ll just need to check your oxygen levels. Could you give me your hand?"

He offers up his arm so she can look at the monitor strapped around his wrist. Apparently she’s satisfied, because she switches off the machine feeding the mask.

"You’re free to leave your room," she says, beaming. "But you are under observation, so you’ll need to stay in the building."

"Yes, ma’am," he says, pulling the mask off and rubbing the bridge of his nose where it was pressed into his face. "Come on, Scott, let’s get something to eat."

The nurse departs as he kicks aside the sheets and pulls himself to his feet. By some small blessing he’s wearing his own clothes, at least, not a hospital gown. He offers his hand to Scott, who lifts his head and, slowly, takes it.

"Let’s go," he agrees, his voice still strained but mostly steady, resting his hand on Warren’s shoulder. 

 

* * *

 

“I need to make a phone call,” he says as they’re sitting down in the cafeteria. “After we eat.”

“Jean first,” Scott says. “Then whoever else.”

“Okay,” he agrees, too tired to argue about it. Scott is right – the others deserve to know how he’s doing first. Anyways, he’d sure as hell rather talk to Jean than to his father.

He’s already eaten half of his food before he realizes Scott’s not touching his own.

“Have you eaten already today?” he asks, frowning.

Scott shakes his head. “Not hungry, really,” he says flatly.

“Eat anyways,” Warren says.

He makes a face and pushes his tray away. “I’m not  _hungry,_ ” he says again, and buries his face in his hands, pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes with his fingertips.

Warren watches him and slowly lays down his fork as guilt settles in his stomach and saps his appetite. He hasn’t gotten a good look at Scott, and now that he does he sees he looks pale and tired, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his cheeks hollow. “You’ve been here all night?” he asks quietly.

Scott nods, silent.

“You sleep at all?”

“Not much.” He sets his glasses back in place and lifts his head. “Meant to be awake when you came around, but I guess I…”

He shrugs. Warren sucks in his lower lip, his teeth digging into the skin. “That’s okay,” he says. “Uh – thanks for staying. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did.” There’s no anger or bitterness left in his voice; he just sounds drained. For a long moment he’s quiet, and then adds, “Sorry for snapping at you.”

“I think I can forgive that,” Warren manages dryly. “ _If…_ ”

Scott cocks his head to the side, waiting.

“You eat your breakfast,” he finishes, and pushes the tray back towards Scott. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Scott replies, and manages a half-hearted smile.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good afternoon, you’ve reached the X-Factor Hotline,” Bobby says when he answers the phone. “Drake speaking.”

“Hey, Bobby,” Warren says.

The attitude drops. “Warren,” he replies. “Hey. Good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah, um. Yours, too.” Warren runs his fingers through his hair, staring up at the ceiling. “I guess I should probably thank you guys, huh.”

“It’s mostly Scott you should be thanking,” Bobby tells him. “He’s the one who got us all there.”

“Right,” he agrees. “I’ll…do that, yeah.”

He can hear other voices on the phone, recognizes them as Hank and Jean in the background. “Hang on,” Bobby says, and muffled speaks to the others. Warren can’t make out any of it. A brief exchange, and then he’s back. “You mind if I hand you off to Jean?”

“Sure, go ahead,” he agrees.

The phone is handed off and Jean’s voice comes sharp in his ear. “Warren – thank God – you’re awake – how are you? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says, feeling very tired of this question. “I’m fine, Jean, I’m alright.”

“I mean,” she says, “once your breathing stabilized they said you were  _probably_  going to be okay, but – Warren, we were so _scared,_  God.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I know.”

“Thank God,” she says, sounding small; he thinks she’s talking through her fingers. “Do you – do you want to talk to Hank? He’s here, if you want.”

“Does…does he want to talk to me?”

“Of course he does -” she says, and then breaks off. “But I know you must be worn down, if you’d rather not, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“No,” he says, “no, it’s okay, I can talk.”

She hands off the phone again, and then Hank is talking at him - “Warren, it’s good to speak with you. We were all terribly concerned, what a vast relief to know for certain – Jean reported back to us that you were in recovery with a good prognosis, but nevertheless.”

“Hi, Hank,” he says. “Um. I’m glad everyone’s glad.”

“Are you back on your feet, then?” Hank asks. “When will you be leaving?”

He hesitates. “I’m – under observation. Til tomorrow morning.”

A long silence, and Hank clears his throat. “Of course,” he says. “Naturally. Do you intend to return to the lodge, or…?”

“I somehow don’t think that’s in the cards,” Warren says dryly with a glance at Scott.

“Then I expect we’ll be seeing you soon,” Hank says. “Is Scott around? I think Jean wants to speak with him.”

“Yeah,” he says, and turns. “Hey, Scott. Jean wants you.”

Scott crosses the hall to take the phone from him, and Warren turns away, slouching down the hall to let Scott speak to Jean in peace.

 

* * *

 

 

He hopes, while waiting for the phone to ring, that his call goes to the answering machine, but he’s not so lucky.

“Worthington,” says his father’s voice sharply. “Who’s calling?”

“Uh,” he says. “Hi. It’s me.”

“Warren?” It’s sort of a bitter relief to hear no softness or pity in his voice. “Where are you? Not back at the lodge already?”

“No,” he replies. “I figured they would have told you. I’m under observation. I don’t leave until tomorrow.”

“I hadn’t heard. Just that you were in emergency. What the hell happened? I’ll be calling the hospital for the details, of course, and I’ll see the procedure on the insurance bill, I suppose, but I’d like to have an idea – something from the surgery?”

“No, it wasn’t…”

“Some kind of accident? You weren’t stupid enough to drive taking painkillers, were you, son?”

“No, um.”

His father sighs. “Then what was it? I want to know what it is that landed you in the hospital.”

“I don’t really,” Warren says weakly, “want to, do this now…”

“You know, if you keep getting in the wrong kinds of trouble, it will be harder for us to revoke the incompetency claim, Warren. We’ve got to know -”

“Dad,” he says, “I tried to kill myself.”

Dead fucking silence, and then, “ _Excuse_ me?”

“I went to emergency for a Vicodin overdose,” he says. His voice doesn’t sound like his; he feels dizzy and sick. “It wasn’t an accident, it was a suicide attempt.”

He knows it’s coming, counts down in his head,  _three – two – one -_

“What in hell’s name,” his father roars, “would possess you to do a thing like that?” When Warren doesn’t answer, he keeps shouting. “Your life is  _damn_  good, boy, and  _damn_  well worth more than you’ve done with it  _yet,_  don’t you understand that? And after I’ve gone through so much for you, after everything I’ve done for you lately -”

“Right,” Warren snarls, “because now I’m not a  _freak!_ ” He doesn’t mean to yell, honest, but he finds he can’t bite his tongue. “Sorry, I forgot how I’m supposed to be  _thrilled_  about it, the same as  _you_  are!”

“Don’t you shout at me,” his father says, seething.

Warren isn’t having it. “Maybe if you listened, I wouldn’t have to!” he snaps, and before his father can respond he slams the receiver back into the cradle. He finds he’s breathing hard, and trembling, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Warren,” Scott says quietly beside him, and rests a hand on his arm.

He crumbles, turns to face Scott and collapses against him, face buried in the crook of his neck as he sobs. “Shit,” he mumbles into Scott’s shoulder. “Shit, sorry, I’m sorry -”

Scott shakes his head and puts both arms around Warren, pulls him up against his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but he holds Warren as tight as he can and doesn’t let go until he’s stopped crying.


	3. Chapter 3

He waits outside the next morning while the doctor talks to Warren, slumped against the wall in the hallway. Sleeping on the floor of a hospital room for one night isn’t so bad, but two nights in a row is pushing it; he’s stiff and achey, and so tired he might as well have not slept at all.

At least they’re going home now, he thinks. As soon as the doctor is finished, they’re going home.

He’ll be glad for the chance to sleep, when they get back - shower first, and maybe shave, and then sleep, in his own damn bed instead of sitting up with his back against the wall. Not to say that he regrets staying, or that he’d have preferred to go home. But he’ll be glad when they’re back.

The door opens behind him and he lifts his head, blinks up at the two figures exiting. “Hey,” Warren says, and stops beside him. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah.” He holds out his hand for help, and Warren pulls him to his feet. All his muscles protest but he just grits his teeth against the sharp reminder that he’s spent much too long sitting on the floor. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

Jean is the one who greets them, pulling the door open before they’ve even reached it and throwing her arms around Warren’s shoulders. “I’m glad you’re back,” she says in a small voice.

“Yeah,” he agrees wearily. “Thanks.”

She releases him so she can pull Scott into a rib-crushing hug as well, pressing her face into his shoulder. How was it? she asks, and he thinks, okay.

“Come on inside,” she says, pulling them both in.

Everyone else wants to fuss over Warren, which makes it easy for Scott to slip away from them and up to his own room. He feels guilty for doing it, and he can’t shake the worry that prickles at the back of his neck that something will happen while he’s gone - but he does trust them, the other three, and he knows it’s not making it easier, feeling like death the way he does.

He gathers up clean clothes and trades his shoes for his slippers, so weary and worn out he’s numb to everything except his nerves. It’s going to be fine, he tells himself firmly as he shuffles down the hall and ducks into the bathroom. It’s going to be fine.

With the door locked behind him he strips off his two-day old clothes and sighs with relief. He’ll feel better when he’s cleaned himself up, he always does. He sets his glasses on the edge of the sink and steps into the shower, running the water till it heats up before switching from the tap to the showerhead.

He doesn’t get out until the water goes cold.

The bedroom is quiet when he comes in, but he’s glad to find when he crawls under the covers into bed that Warren is there. “Hey,” he says softly, and with one hand reaches out to touch Warren’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Warren murmurs, and catches Scott’s fingers with his own, leans his cheek against the back of Scott’s hand.

For a long moment they’re both silent, and Scott listens to the sound of Warren breathing, closing his eyes so that there’s nothing else.

At last Warren turns, shifting his weight. “C’mere,” he says, and pulls Scott towards him.

“Missed you,” Scott mumbles.

With his hand still pressed to Warren’s face, he can feel the way a smile twitches and tugs at his mouth. “You, too,” Warren agrees.

“I should have come up to stay with you,” Scott says, lacing his fingers through Warren’s. “I should have been there - ”

“Shut up,” Warren tells him, and rests his other hand on the side of Scott’s face, thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. “Don’t say that. It’s okay.”

“Mm,” Scott says. “I still should have.”

“Shh.” Warren’s fingers brush over his temple, tuck his damp hair back off his face. “Close your eyes.“ He nods, his eyes already shut, and Warren pulls off his glasses, stretching over him to lay them on the table.

"It’s been quiet without you around,” he says as Warren settles back, one arm over his shoulders, their hands still locked together.

Warren laughs, his breath soft against Scott’s skin. “And you  _missed_ me?”

He bites his lip. He wants to say how cold the room’s seemed with Warren gone, and how still, and how he hasn’t been sleeping right ever since that fight and even less when Warren was in the hospital the first time, after his surgery. Instead he forces a smile and says, “Well, some of the time.”

Warren shakes his head, still smiling faintly. “You’ll want a break from me again in a week.”

“No,” he says. “I won’t.”

* * *

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, only waking up to find the sheets cold and the bed empty beside him. He sits up, presses the backs of his hands against his eyes. Swallows against his nerves. It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s fine. There’s three other people around to keep an eye on things.

“Don’t have to do everything all the time,” he murmurs to himself and to the empty room. “That’s what being on a team’s for.”

With that thought he pushes himself to his feet and feels around to find his glasses on the table, unfolded and resting upside-down the way Warren left them.

He almost smiles as he puts them on.

The building is quiet and still; he trails his hand on the wall to steady himself as he makes his way down to the commons.

“Warren?” he calls as he leans around the edge of the door.

“Hey,” Warren calls back. He seeks out the source of his voice, locates him sitting at the table. It’s strange trying to reconcile the hunched figure there with Warren - Warren who he’s always recognized by his wings. Without them he seems half his size, or smaller.

“What time is it?” Scott asks, crossing the room, letting his fingers rest on the back of the chair.

“Half past five,” Warren says.

He groans, shaking his head. “You should’ve woken me up.”

Warren laughs. “Shut up,” he says, and his voice is sharp. “You needed it.”

“I guess you’re right,” Scott sighs, and leans down to rest his chin on the top of Warren’s head, glad that Warren can’t see his face when he’s standing back here.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings: references to suicide, jokes about death

Everything is too quiet when Warren comes back, and he can’t shake the feeling that the others are walking on tiptoes around the place, like he’s a thing made of glass that might break if they make too much noise.

Headquarters doesn’t feel like home anymore. He was only gone for a week - and change, in the days at the hospital - but he feels like he’s come back to a new and unfamiliar landscape he doesn’t know how to navigate. His room feels like a hotel, distant and impersonal, and the air of the hospital waiting room hangs over the halls here, too. His friends - his family, or the closest he has to it - are suddenly strangers.

 _Good work, Worthington,_  he tells himself, his eyes fixed unseeing on the television.  _Still alive and now you’re alone, too._

“Hey, Warren,” Jean says when he comes into the kitchen in a very soft voice. “How are you feeling today?”

“Well, I assume anything stronger than an aspirin is out of the question,” he says, “so I’m fine, I guess.”

She sets down the paper and looks up at him, her spoon clattering against the side of her mug as she loses focus. “Warren, if you need something for the pain, I can help,” she says. “Let me try to at least block it off for you, it must be wearing you down -”

He waves a hand and shakes his head, sitting down across from her. “No, it’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to. Besides -” He gives her a tight smile. “You probably don’t want to mess around too much in my head right now.”

She looks at him over the top of her glasses, brows drawing together in a frown, and he looks away.

* * *

No one brings it up to his face, but Warren knows they’ve all been talking about it when he’s not in the room. He can’t exactly blame them, either, but there’s a sick feeling in his stomach whenever he comes around the corner only for voices to fall suddenly silent.

So this is what the shadow of martyrdom feels like, he thinks miserably as he sits down in the living room, pretending not to notice how Bobby raises his voice a little when he changes the subject to the baseball game on TV. 

He almost doesn’t say anything when Scott comes into the room, but he sees the glance Hank casts towards him and the way Scott frowns, turning his head trying to make out shapes in the room. Looking for him, unable to recognize his shape now.

“Hey,” he says, hunching his shoulders a little.

“Hey,” Scott replies, and crosses the room to sit down beside him, six inches away, close enough to touch but far enough not to do it by accident. Warren doesn’t know how to answer; he can’t read Scott’s expression, isn’t sure if he’s being given an opportunity or a cold shoulder. He doesn’t move.

“Mets are up two-nothing,” Bobby offers from the other side of the room.

“Mets are up?” Scott says. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“They’re playing the Marlins,” Hank adds.

“That explains it,” Scott replies lightly.

“Hey,” Bobby complains. “Don’t be fucking rude.”

Scott laughs hollowly. Warren reaches for the remote. “You want the sound on?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” Scott says. “Anyways, _fuck_ the Marlins. Can you imagine if they _won?”_

Bobby snorts at that, but Warren just looks at him wearily and sighs, wrapping his arms around himself. The game is just something else to talk about while he’s in the room and they can’t whisper in hushed and somber tones about how he’s doing. If Scott cared about it he’d want to hear the commentators instead of just Bobby’s half-attentive play-by-play.

“Aren’t the Yanks playing now too?” Hank says.

“Fuck the Yankees,” Bobby and Scott say in unison, which Warren can’t help but laugh at a little. “You might get this one, though, Beast,” Bobby adds. “I think they’re killing Detroit right now.”

“Thank God,” Hank says. “They’ve had a rotten run. Haven’t won a game since, uh -”

“Oakland,” Bobby says, “last – uh, last…”

He trails off and looks away very quickly when Warren glances at him.

“Well, thank God I made it,” he says dryly. “I’d hate to have died on a night the _Yankees_ won.”

He means it as a joke, but it comes off harsher than he means and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. The room goes very quiet.

“I, uh,” Bobby manages weakly. “Sorry, Warren, I didn’t mean -”

“I know,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. “I – I should go.”

“Warren, wait,” Scott protests, but he’s already on his feet and out the door, headed for the stairs. When he glances over his shoulder on the landing, no one’s followed yet.

* * *

He’s about to fall asleep when Scott stirs next to him and asks, suddenly, “Why did you call me?”

“Huh?” Warren asks, his eyes blinking open.

Scott’s sitting up; his silhouette is faintly visible in the light that creeps under the door. “Why did you call me?” he asks again. “After you…?”

Warren doesn’t answer for a moment, just chews his lip, thinking. He’s been bracing for the questions, but realizes he still doesn’t have an answer for any of them, just a headache from the tension in his shoulders. “Um,” he says, quietly.

“What?” Scott presses him, leaning closer.

He shrugs and forces a laugh. “Got a funny feeling the Yankees won,” he says.

“Warren,” Scott says, his voice going flat.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, because he doesn’t want to fight with Scott, not again, not after the last argument they had. Maybe that’s why, he thinks, and swallows. “Didn’t want the last time we talked to be a fight,” he adds, more quietly.

He hears Scott let a breath out through his teeth. “Yeah,” he says.

In the dark, his hand fumbles under the covers and finds Warren’s fingers.

“Didn’t want to be alone,” Warren says, and feels his throat close up. “Oh, _God -”_

“Warren – Warren…” Scott says, and clasps his hand tighter, lying back next to him. “Hey, come here -”

“I was going to die alone,” he chokes out. “I didn’t want to die alone, Scotty.”

“Come here, Angel,” Scott tells him again, and pulls him closer. “You’re okay. You’re not alone.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pressing his face into Scott’s shoulder. “Fuck – Scott, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Scott says, running his fingers through Warren’s hair. “Shh, it’s okay.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” he says through tears.

“You’re not alone,” Scott tells him, holding him tighter. “I’m not going to leave you alone.”


End file.
